


So Stop your Sighing--Be Happy Again!

by Dancains



Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015), And Then There Were None - Christie, CHRISTIE Agatha - Works
Genre: (implied at least) - Freeform, ...maybe, 1930s, Alternate Ending, And maybe you eventually process some of your emotional trauma, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Murder flashbacks, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Homophobia, References to other period typical attitudes, Slow Burn, Sometimes you just have to take your new bf you met on murder island on a road trip, The final four live, Title will make more sense in the second chapter, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 10:39:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16084430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: Blore didn't consider himself very good company. Quite the opposite in fact. Still, he seriously considered it."Given the circumstances..." Blore echoed, "I'd be quite grateful."Armstrong gave him the closest thing he had seen to a smile in nearly a month, strained and tight around the edges but still well intentioned. "It's settled then."





	So Stop your Sighing--Be Happy Again!

39: Adonis in Hades  
“The loveliest sight I’ve left behind is the sun’s light  
or clear stars on a dark dark sky, a full-faced moon;  
and fruits in summer — ripe cucumbers, apples, pears…”  
\- Praxilla of Sicyon 

If surviving the fiasco on Soldier Island was easily the most treacherous ordeal that William Blore had experienced, the investigation that followed was certainly a runner up. For over a month the four survivors were drilled over and over again about the events of those five fateful days, forced to repeatedly revisit the horror and trauma that had taken place. If there was one thing Blore hated, it was being on the wrong side of an interrogation, having the tables turned against him.

Beyond that, there was just a lot of waiting.

It must have taken a genuine miracle that none of the crimes Wargrave had singled them out for were being reopened for investigation. Blore imagined that in Lombard's case there simply wasn't evidence, let alone genuine sympathy for his victims. As for the others, he knew from personal experience what a hassle it was to go back to long closed cases, the ones wrapped up so cleanly and prettily that they might have used a ribbon and bow. Coppers liked simple answers, obvious ones.

They had found the judge's letter of explanation that he had written, detailing how he planned to kill each guest and then himself. According to the document, he even had plans to place it in a sealed glass bottle and float it out to sea--that alone spoke lengths to the investigators, already constructing the narrative of a man gone mad and power-hungry, so used to playing God at the bench that he thought he could use regular people as pawns in a fatal chess match of his own making. That was the Soldier Island case--open and shut.

A date was finally set, the fifteenth of September, when they were deemed to be released from custody. There were stipulations of course, quite reasonable considering the circumstances. They couldn't leave England, they each had to give a place of residence where they could be reached. The bodies had been removed from the island, but even now investigators were still pouring over the house. Blore shivered whenever he imagined the confusing scenes of carnage that they must have first walked into. True to his promise, Lombard had made "Mr. Owen" number twenty-two.

Blore woke soon after dawn on the fifteenth, only intending to have a brief breakfast before putting as much distance as he could between himself and the small coastal town, as quickly as possible. His luggage had been found and searched and finally returned to him, and he had spent an embarrassing amount of time folding and repacking his best few suits and his meager personal items, mostly for lack of much else to do in the stuffy inn room where he was being kept. 

There was something like a pub on the inn's first floor, and when he descended the stairs with his suitcase in hand, he found Dr. Armstrong to be it's sole occupant.

 _Edward,_ his mind corrected itself--"You might as well call me Edward," the doctor had said to him, on their boat ride back to shore, his voice barely audible against the howling of the wind. Still, it was hard to think of him by any way other than his surname. They had barely seen each other since that day, sequestered in their separate rooms.

Presently, he was picking at a plate of eggs and sausage, a still steaming cup of coffee in arm's reach. He looked up to see Blore, his expression indecipherable. 

"They've already left," Armstrong told him.

Blore immediately knew who he meant--Vera Claythorne and Phillip Lombard. He nodded, and almost asked if they left together, but he already knew the answer to that. You didn't get as far along as a detective as Blore had by being completely oblivious.

Armstrong gestured at the spot across the table, and soon Blore had a hot cup of tea and a full English in front of him, though he wasn't sure how much of it he could stomach this early in the morning. 

At least it was pleasant to have something warm to drink, as he surveyed the churning gray sea out the inn's long front window. He was surprised the silence between Armstrong and himself wasn't entirely uncomfortable. He supposed there was some sort of understanding between them, something he'd be hard-pressed to describe in words. Not that Blore was particularly good with words anyway.

"You heading back to London, then?" Armstrong asked him, right when Blore has gotten around to eating the particularly ripe tomato half from his plate. Blore swallowed and wiped the juice from his mouth.

"I suppose. The yard's given me three months mandatory leave. Frankly, I don't know what I'll do with myself, but anything is better than here."

Armstrong nodded emphatically, before finishing off his coffee in one last swallow. "I don't know if you remember...that I drove out here, originally. I'll be heading back to take care of a few matters at my clinic on Harley Street, before I drive a few hours north. I'm planning to stay with my sister and her husband for some time." He paused, his clasped hands shifting on the table. 

Blore absently wondered if they had ever been calloused from hard work, or if they had always looked the way they did now. Patients probably preferred a soft touch, anyway. Blore had held one of those hands in his own, that night on the island as the gramophone had played, but he had been too drunk to properly remember the sensation.

"I'd understand perfectly if you didn't want to take me up on this," Armstrong continued, "given the circumstances, but I could save you the price of the train. And I wouldn't necessarily mind company."

Blore didn't consider himself very good company. Quite the opposite in fact. Still, he seriously considered it.

"Given the circumstances..." Blore echoed, "I'd be quite grateful."

Armstrong gave him the closest thing he had seen to a smile in nearly a month, strained and tight around the edges but still well intentioned. "It's settled then."

Soon they were both out on the dock, packing their luggage into the back seat of Armstrong's '26 Hudson. Blore helped him shift the convertible roof into place, considering the chill wind that was coming their way. Once they were both settled into the front seat, they were met with a clear view of Soldier Island just a few miles from the shore. They exchanged a glance.

"Now that's a place I never want to see again in my damned life," muttered Armstrong, before reversing the motor car off of the dock and making an abrupt turn with a well practiced hand to steer them in the direction of the main road. Blore felt the beginning of a deep relief bloom somewhere in his chest.

Not unlike their breakfast, the ride was quiet but not unagreeable. Even though he had enjoyed a rare full night of sleep, Blore later suspected that he drifted off at times. While awake, he surveyed the green, sprawling countryside that whizzed by them, touched by the growing rays of the sun as the time passed.

"You know what's funny," said Armstrong, an hour or two into the drive, partially rousing Blore.

"Hm?"

Actually, never mind it."

"No, now you've got me curious," said Blore honestly.

"While we were shacked up in that inn for so long, I kept thinking about your allotment, in Edmonton. Your tomatoes, and radishes. Isn't that strange? Suppose something about you talking about it...just stuck with me."

Blore studied him as he drove. He wouldn't have imagined his sad little garden allotment would have struck any such chord. He wondered how much Armstrong really had to look forward to go back to. A posh job, certainly, but one he imagined the man might be bored of. The same patients, and all of their trivial little problems. No wife or children apparently, but at least some family that cared enough to take him in for a spell. That was still something more than Blore himself had.

"Well, it's certainly...brought me a little piece of mind," said Blore carefully. "You could see it for yourself, if you wanted. Though I'm not sure how much there is to show for it, considering it's been left unattended for so long."

"It's probably gotten a spot of rain, at least," said Armstrong politely.

It occurred to Blore that he hadn't so much as looked at a newspaper since they had arrived on the island, let alone a weather report. "Suppose you can always count on that with London."

Armstrong chuckled warmly, perhaps glad for a return to mundanity. "My sister, Sylvia, is a bit of an amateur horticulturalist. Has a greenhouse and all that. Myself on the other hand...I have trouble keeping the potted plant in my consulting room alive."

It was Blore's turn to laugh, and the sound of it felt rusty and unused but good all the same.

The conversation came easier after that, as they talked about this and that while making a moderate pace down endless stretches of country road. Certainly much easier than the first time he and Armstrong had been alone together, when he still had to masquerade at his carefully concocted character "Davis." He had read an entire book just on the history of tinned goods beforehand. It was silly now to think of, a metaphorical lifetime ago. 

As if by some unspoken agreement, they didn't talk about what happened on the island.

When it neared noon, they mutually decided to stop in a small town for early lunch. They ended up sitting in the front courtyard of an inn, not unlike the one they had left that morning, with a plate of (now mostly finished) sandwiches and a cool pitcher of lemon cordial between them. The sun was out, and Blore could see a group of children kicking around a football in a schoolyard just down the street.

He wondered what sort of image he and Armstrong painted, perhaps just two mates motoring about in the countryside, purely for the sake of enjoying a warm Saturday afternoon. If only that were really the case. Realistically, thought Blore, with the social circles the doctor probably kept, it would have been quite unlikely for them to meet in any other way.

Something in him almost felt guilty, voyeuristic even, as he studied Armstrong's profile against the sun. Of course anyone would notice that he was, objectively, rather handsome--according to what you see in magazines, and all that. Blore couldn't help but be reminded of the motion picture actor Errol Flynn, especially in the strong slope of his nose and jaw.

Going to films had been his one other escape from the usual tedium of his police work, other than his little patch of garden. If he liked to occasionally page through an issue of _Photoplay_ at his corner news stand, that was his own business, irregardless of if their readership typically skewed younger, and female.

Feeling acutely awkward as Armstrong suddenly caught his distracted gaze, Blore fumbled in his coat pockets for his last pack of cigarettes. _Shite._ His lighter was buried somewhere in his suitcase.

"D'you'va light?"

"Of course," replied Armstrong, drawing a lighter that probably cost two weeks worth of Blore's salary from his pocket and leaning over the table to light it for him. Unlike so many moments on the island, the doctor's hand were perfectly steady. Blore made a point not to watch him too intently through the haze of the flame. 

Armstrong accepted a cigarette from his offered pack a moment later, and soon they were on the road with just over an hour left to London.

Blore thought of his tired, old flat, with it's peeling paper and the faucet that dripped all through the night. At least he had his tomatoes. Them, and the cinema. Taking his last few breaths of fresh country air before they were to be engulfed in the smog of the city, he decided that he'd go to the cinema every day if it kept his mind off of what happened on that island; he'd spend every last pound of his paid leave on the damned tickets if he had to.

"Bill?"

Blore had nearly drifted off again in the passenger seat. They were in Edmonton now, with its crowded sidewalks and sad looking tenement housing.

"You did say you prefer 'Bill'?" Armstrong prompted, his voice a tad softer.

"Yes, yes. That's fine."

"I was just going to ask where I turn for-"

"Ah. Just up here."

Blore didn't know exactly what they were doing, or why Amrstrong even cared.The Hudson was easily the nicest motorcar on the block, as Armstrong parked it across the street and followed Blore through the gate of the allotment gardens. 

The moment Blore's shoes touched the lush grass that grew in between the individual raised beds, it was as if some weight had unburdened itself from his shoulders. Decievingly surrounded by tall buildings on three sides, but still open to the streaming sunlight, the small garden was like a hidden green jewel in a jungle of rusted brass.

Crossing through to the back end of the allotments, they passed an elderly, flat cap wearing local, sipping what looked to be a thermos of tea from the confines of his garden shed. He eyed Armstrong's beige summer suit and loud silk tie with something akin to bored disapproval.

"Well this is...this is it." Blore muttered when they arrived at his fairly large patch of garden. The neat rows of carrots, radishes, cabbage, and tomato plants were just as he had left them, if not in even more fruitful condition. There was even a sprinkling of mixed wild flowers running along one edge--the packet of seeds had been discounted at the garden store to one pence.

Armstrong nodded, looking it all over. "Very nice."

Any response Blore might have given was interrupted by a middle aged woman who had been working nearby, her mess of blonde curls tied back with a handkerchief.

"Is this your allotment?" She asked Blore sharply, a distinctly Northern lilt coloring her tone.

"Yes, yes it is."

"Knew it was," she said, stepping forward. A small boy clung to her skirt and girl around the same age hung back a short distance behind them. "I've always had a good memory for faces, and I've seen you around here--but not for some time. Noticed your plot could use a bit of weeding and watering last week, thought I'd be neighborly and help you out a bit. I think that's real important, in times like these, being neighborly to one another and all."

"Oh. Thank you," said Blore, rather surprised. "I appreciate that, I've been..."--he can't help but glance at Armstrong while searching for the words--"unexpectedly kept away. And I couldn't agree more. Please, help yourself to any of the vegetabl-"

She waved him off with a hand. "No, no, its fine. A man deserves to enjoy his own tomatoes, especially when their as beautiful and ripe as those, besides, I have plenty of my own. Might take a few of those flowers though, since you never seem to cut them. Something nice for the table."

"Of course." Even though she wasn't nearly as old, the woman reminded Blore of his late mother, in one of her softer moments.

Realizing a moment later when he bent down to pluck some of the ruby colored tomatoes hanging heavy off their vines that he didn't have anything to carry them in, he ended up borrowing an old sack from the same woman.

As they left, Blore handed off the burlap sack to Armstrong. "Here, keep 'em."

"Are you sure?"

Blore nodded resolutely. "In return for the lift."

From the flash of emotion he saw before they both crossed the busy street, Armstrong looked genuinely pleased.

When they had gotten back in to the car, Armstrong hesitated before putting the key in the ignition. "I was thinking...would you like to stay at my family's estate for a time?"

He put up a hand to silence Blore before he could refuse. "It's just that," Armstrong continued, "I don't think I can go back to it all so soon--pretending everything's fine. Pretending that what happened out there didn't. You were on that island. You saw it all. At least we'd both have somebody to talk to."

Blore swallowed. "Are you sure you want me around, knowing what I'd done to get myself there?" Instantly his mind was back in that cell, blood on his hands and the walls closing in on him. He took a deep breath to steady himself.

The gaze Armstrong leveled at him could have sharpened steel. "We've all done things we shouldn't have. Things we regret."

Blore stared back for a long moment, then felt himself nodding, almost imperceptibly. "I'll need to pick up a few things from my flat then."

He had no idea what he'd gotten himself into, but they went on as if it were the most usual circumstances in the world. Back in the flat that he never thought he'd be able to get home to, he pulled his second, more weathered valise from under his bed and hurriedly packed it with most of the contents of his wardrobe. He had only brought a weeks worth of clothing to Soldier Island, and this was for an indefinite amount of time. 

Beyond that, nothing here was bloodstained. 

He paid his baffled landlord for the last month he'd been absent and for the next two in advance with some of the last money he had, and told him that if Scotland Yard called the building looking to summon him, that they were to look up a Dr. Edward Armstrong, that Blore would be with him.

Whatever arrangements Armstrong had to make at his clinic took a short while, but Blore didn't care too much about waiting. The entire day had the hazy quality of a half remembered dream. He was surprised to see Armstrong eventually walk back out with a second suitcase and some sort of wicker basket with a handle.

"I live in a flat above the clinic," he said, in response to Blore's quirked eyebrow. 

Blore would have expected something separate, in a nicer part of the city, even. Maybe the disgraced ex-surgeon wasn't living quite the lifestyle Blore imagined.

"Here, could you hold this? Careful," he gently passed the basket over to Blore, who was surprised to see the content was quite alive. Setting it on his lap, Blore peered through one of the slits to see the vivid green eyes of a slightly overweight tabby cat. The animal let out an indignant mewl.

"Thank God my secretary kept the poor thing fed the whole time," muttered Armstrong as he slid back into the front seat. "What?" he asked sharply, returning Blore's glance.

"Just didn't take you as the cat owning type, is all." Blore gave a half shrug.

"Well, you don't know me all that well, do you? Not too long ago, you considered me a suspect in multiple murders."

"Now, if I had known you had a fat little tabby at home, it would have been a whole other story..."

"Margie is _not_ fat. She's just well fed," Armstrong insisted, though he was laughing all the same. The three of them continued onward with their journey.

Even though Armstrong had mentioned it in jest, Blore mulled over his earlier suspicions regarding the man. He didn't feel guilty, even now, for coming to what seemed to be an obvious conclusion at the time. Not that Armstrong had been the only one he'd suspected, far from it.

Still, after the first two deaths by poisoning--and especially considering Armstrong's outburst towards Marston during that first dinner--the Claythorne woman's suggestion that his bag be searched wasn't too wildly off base. And to think, Wargrave had simply been sitting there that whole time, playing at being feeble and watching them turn on each other like caged animals. He felt goose pimples run down his arms. Trying to shake the memory, Blore let his mind wander as they drove from the city.

 

Some time later, they finally made their way down the long gravel path to Fairview House, as Armstrong has dubbed the family estate, just as the last rays of the sun were setting. The main house evidently has all the usuals trappings of a small country manor, from the gray bricks to the long surrounding stretch of neat green lawns.

Blore was glad at the least that "Margie" had been a good passenger and not gotten sick on him, as Armstrong had warned was a possibility. Blore was relegated to the task of carrying her basket inside, while Armstrong pulled two of their suitcases from the backseat of the motorcar. 

"Matthews can get the rest for us," he told Blore casually.

Blore expected that they were to be received at the door by some white-haired man servant in cotton gloves. Instead, a petite auburn haired woman rushed towards them, nearly knocking Armstrong clear off his feet with her embrace. He dropped the luggage to hold her, and Blore suddenly felt awkward at peripheral of this obvious familial intimacy.

"Oh, _Ted!_ Teddy!" she exclaimed, drawing back enough to hold his face in her hands. "I've barely been able to sleep since we read about it all in the papers-"

"I'm alright, Slyvie, I'm alright. Really," he murmured, still holding her gently by the shoulders. Blore wondered if he was reassuring himself of that as much as her.

A tall, dark haired man appeared in the doorway a few seconds later, apparently out of breath. "Edward! My word..."

In that moment, the woman finally seemed to register Blore's presence.

"Sylvia," said Armstrong, "I hope you don't mind extra company-"

"Teddy, I'm relieved to see you alive--you could have invited all of England for all I care." The other man came to her side, nodding emphatically in agreement.

"Bill," Armstrong addressed him, "My sister, Mrs. Slyvia Levin, and her husband Professor David Levin. Detective Sergeant William Blore."

He gladly shook both of their hands. The surname took him a bit by surprise; his mind drew back to Ms. Brent's unabashed comments about Jews on the island, and the way Armstrong's eyes had rolled with annoyance at her ignorance.

"Please, do come inside," said the professor, taking one of the suitcases. "We're having an early dinner in just a few moments, we can talk over everything then."

Mrs. Levin took the cat crate from him as they stepped inside. "I see my brother has appointed you to carry Miss Margie, you must be a very good friend then."

Blore suspected she was trying to put him at ease. "Well," he managed, shrugging modestly. He watched as she set the basket down and released its captive, who made a quick escape with a loud snarl.

"She knows her way about," Mrs. Levin assured him. Out of thin air a butler arrived, just as Blore had imagined him, to collect the remaining luggage.

"I suppose Nora's already away at school, then?" Armstrong asked, as he and Blore followed the couple up a grand set of stairs.

"Yes, I'm afraid she is," answered his sister, "and of course you know Mother and Father are still abroad. Though perhaps we can have it arranged for Nora to telephone from the school tomorrow. I think the circumstances would certainly permit it."

"I'd like that very much."

She nodded. "Edward, you know your room. Detective Blore, my husband can show you-"

 _"Blore,"_ the professor interrupted her, turning on his heel to look at Bore properly. "You were on soldier island! One of the four survivors. Sylvie and I read all about it of course, but, naturally, we were only thinking of her brother..." It seemed as if the couple only now truly realized he was there.

"Yes..." Blore answered uneasily, "yes, I was."

A sort of awkward tension clouded the corridor. "I suppose you wouldn't want to talk about that quite yet," the professor continued, looking as if he had just stepped on someone's foot. "Let me show you to one of the guest rooms."

Sharing a brief parting glance with Armstrong, Blore followed the man deeper into the home.

"Matthews should be up with your luggage presently," said Professor Levin. "No need for a dinner jacket tonight, by the way. We dine rather casually here at Fairview."

Blore took in the guest room, furnished simply but tastefully in dark, earthy wood tones. He was glad it was a far cry from the seaside pastel palette at India House on Soldier Island.

"I hope this is alright to say," said the Professor, when Blore had turned to face him again, "that you've probably seen some very terrible things as of late. And my wife and I would very much like to see to it that your as comfortable here as possible, for as long as you'd like to be."

Blore could tell he was entirely in earnest. It was a distinct turn from everything that had happened to him as of late, when he had spent so long feeling that he couldn't trust a single soul.  
"Thank you," he said, hoping that same earnesty came through in his own voice.

The too-familiar sound of a gong summoned him twenty minutes later. Even without the need for black tie, Blore had freshened up and traded in his jumper and tweed slacks for a dull navy suit. 

He wasn't looking forward to the ritual of sitting down to dine with posh strangers again, but the emptiness of his stomach won out, and he was relieved when the cook set down a hearty plate of roast and cooked vegetables in front of each of them. He hoped it wasn't too utterly rude that he was packing the meat and veg away in record time.

"David," said Armstrong, "If Nora's already away at school, shouldn't you be at Cambridge? Not that I'm not glad to see you..."

"I decided to take sabbatical--Sylvie and I were going to go on holiday, and it would give me time to work on my book. But then the war broke out, and just the day after we found out about the incidents on Soldier Isla-"

"The war?" Armstrong interjected.

Blore's eyes snapped to attention. He set down the roll of bread he'd been buttering.

The professor and his wife both gawked at Armstrong.

"Germany invaded Poland," continued Professor Levin, his voice grave, "and on the third of September, both ourselves and France made a declaration of war."

Blore and Armstrong exchanged a look.

"We've been rather-" started Blore.

"Out of the loop," finished Armstrong, as if reading his thoughts.

"Oh. This must be rather a shock," said Mrs. Levin. "Even if we've all been aware of the possibility for some time."

Armstrong gave a measured nod. Blore could suddenly taste the memory of liquor on his tongue, and the strange, sinful buzz of that damned white powder. Armstrong shouting in his ear about the war, the first one-- _"Bodies, bodies, bodies, bodies! Bones, blood, skulls, th-th-this parade of endless shattered-"_

"You know very well I generally consider myself a pacifist, Edward," said Professor Levin, thankfully interrupting Blore's unwieldy train of thought, "but considering what I've read lately, what's going on in Germany especially, I think we're doing the right thing. The king's set to make a speech on the radio, at eight. We could all have a listen."

After mutual agreement, the table seemed to slip into an ill-fitted silence. Slowing down on his meal, it gave Blore a chance to observe his hosts, mentally making notes if only out of habit. 

Sylvia Levin had similar coloring to her brother, though with more obvious red to her hair, and the same set of piercing blue eyes. Her and the professor made a pleasant looking pair, and Blore would have guessed them to be around his own age or younger, both in their early forties. He absent-mindedly wondering how old "Nora" was, undoubtedly their daughter.

"Sylvie," said Armstrong, "Call that maid of yours, will you? I'd kill for a scotch just about now."

"We don't have any in the house," she said evenly.

"Brandy, then. Anything."

"We don't have any type of alcohol in the house."

Bore saw the veins in Armstrong's hand twitch, as he set his jaw and gave her a firm look. "Sylvia," he said through gritted teeth, "do you have any idea what I've been through in the past month?"

She sat, unyielding.

"I am your _older brother,_ " he pressed.

"And this is _my_ home."

Armstrong looked as if he was going to get up, do something, but he didn't. Blore privately thought that Sylvia Levin must have the same sort of strong constitution as Vera Claythorne.

"You become so _mean_ when you're drunk. So unlike yourself..." she suddenly whispered, staring down at the starched white tablecloth.

Armstrong instantly cowed. He looked to be at a loss for words.

Embarrassed, the professor glanced from his wife to Blore and back again. Clearly this was a family matter. "Detective..." he ventured, obviously looking to steer the conversation away from the matter at hand, "How, erm, how exactly did you begin working for the police? Was it always an aspiration of yours?

Blore hated being put on the spot. He usually just said the first thing that tended to come to mind. "Well, one reads too much Conan Doyle as a child and gets all sorts of ideas. Lot more paperwork than the mystery books will lead you to believe, I can tell you that."

Mrs. Levin let out an almost familiar, bird-like laugh, and suddenly it seemed at least some of the tension seeped from the room. The rest of the dinner, Blore decided, was quite tolerable.

When they retired to a nearby sitting room where the radio was situated, a uniformed maid brought them a tray of little coffee cups and a delicately sliced Battenberg cake. The professor fiddled with the radio, trying to get the right signal as Blore and Armstrong sat on a couch across from Mrs. Levin.

"Even as a medical professional," Armstrong said to him in a low voice, as Blore helped himself to a second slice of cake, "I have to wonder where it all goes."  
Blore shot him a look. It wasn't the first time someone had made a crack about how his physique didn't quite match the depth of his appetite.

He flashed Armstrong a cheeky smile. "Fast metabolism." 

Armstrong let out a short huff of a laugh.

Mrs. Levin gave them a gentle look as if to quiet them once the speech began coming in over the radio, and Blore couldn't help but feel a bit like a school boy.

As King George's slow, plodding tones washed over them, Blore had trouble letting the words really sink in, as if they weren't reality. War. France. Germany. The British people's duty. Et cetera, et cetera. He had all heard it before, too many years ago. The professor took his wife's hand in his steadily on the cushion between them. Beside Blore, Armstrong sat stock still, his face grave once again.

To Blore, even this was better than a mad Judge's indictments being read to them over a gramophone record. He had set out for Solider Island hoping for a well deserved holiday, albeit with strangers. It seemed he was to get that after all, though now the company was slightly more familiar and it was a fact he was begrudgingly grateful for.


End file.
